


How the Fairy Tale Ends

by shirogiku



Series: Books & Memories [3]
Category: Black Sails
Genre: 2x09, All The Love For Miranda, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternative Universe - Miranda Lives, Episode Related, Episode: s02e09 XVII., Fix-It, Gen, Miranda Lives AU, Season/Series 02, The Awful Fathers Club, XVII.
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-11
Updated: 2016-06-11
Packaged: 2018-07-14 10:51:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,826
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7168130
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shirogiku/pseuds/shirogiku
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Abigail never meant to choose sides (concluding <a href="http://archiveofourown.org/series/467260">Books & Memories</a>).</p>
            </blockquote>





	How the Fairy Tale Ends

“ _Far more often [than asking the question 'Is it true?'] they [children] have asked me:                                                                                   Was he good? Was he wicked?' That is, they were far more concerned to get the Right side                                                                                 and the Wrong side clear. For that is a question equally important in History and in Faerie._ ”

                                                                                ― J.R.R. Tolkien

Abigail had not _meant_ to eavesdrop. At least, not the first time around. It should have been the easiest thing in the world to trust Father’s judgement and submit to Mrs. Tyler’s fussing, and yet, she grew more and more restless, as if she had never reached land.

 _It was as if the sea had conjured that man out of nothing and then taken him back for some unknowable purpose…_ Like a lone ship in the long, dark night sets the sea aglow, his voice left trails of hidden meanings in its wake. _I feared the man I was about to create._

Abigail feared what she must do, but even more so what her inaction may bring about.

_I feared that someone born of such dark things would consume me were I not careful. And I was determined only to wear him for a while and then dispose of him when his purpose was complete. And I thought of that story._

She shivered as if from a sudden onset of chills.

_Am I ready to let him go? Truth is every day I've worn that name I've hated him a little more._

_I've been ready to return him to the sea for a long time._

Spurred on by a noise deeper within the house, she burst into the guest room, in a flurry of half-formulated warnings.

“Please,” she implored. “You have to leave, _now_ ! You aren’t safe here! I have… overheard things. About a trial, a trial against you! _Both_ of you. No matter what agreement you and Father achieve, he will not let you go in peace.” She had to pause, her voice trembling.

“All this, you have just ‘ _overheard_ ’, Miss Ashe?” Captain Flint’s air quotes were as sharp as fish hooks.

She nodded silently, not knowing whether he was doubting her word or struggling to reconcile himself with the truth.

He turned to Miranda, who had risen from her seat to put a comforting arm around Abigail’s shoulders. Oh, how she wished to have an escape plan at the ready, but her ideas stopped at climbing out of the window.

Miranda’s arm tightened almost to the point of pain as she made a declaration worthy of a ship’s captain: “We will not give up without one final appeal, my dear. Or else, we would have come all this way for nothing.”

“Well, there’s always a hanging,” quipped Captain Flint. Chastened, he added on a more sober note: “Which is not an option.”

Any further argument was forestalled by the arrival of Colonel Rhett and his men. Under his unblinking stare, Abigail wrenched herself away, schooling her features into a semblance of Miranda’s composure.

“What a _lovely_ invitation,” Mrs. Hamilton commented casually. “I, for my part, have not received the like for a decade.” She glanced at her companion, an ironic smile playing on her lips. “What about you, James?”

He pretended to think about it. “My memory fails me.”

Abigail willed herself to keep calm and carry on with the charade.

At the banquet table, she could have sworn that her father’s guard dog knew every word of what had just been said in the guest room. A funerary dinner would have been more cheerful. Father was the only one who touched his food, while the rest of them sat waiting for the first shot to be fired. Abigail tensed at each regular chime of the clock as it measured out the remaining time like a miserly druggist his syrup.

It was Captain Flint who finally broke the spell: “My lord, will you allow me to propose a toast?” Suddenly, he looked and sounded like this _was_ a perfectly ordinary occasion.

Abigail twisted her napkin between her hands. Miranda’s gaze was fixed not on him, but to the side, as if she already knew what he was about to say.

Father’s expression was unreadable.

Abigail could barely follow the wording above the rush in her ears, but it was elegant in its simplicity, revolving around new ventures and enduring partnerships. And it seemed to have its desired effect: Father leaned back in his chair, lost in recollection.

Abigail waited.

Curtly, he ordered Colonel Rhett to clear the room.

“No.” The voice must be hers, but it seemed to have gained a life of its own. “Forgive me, Father, but anything you have to say to our guests, you must say it in my presence. It is I who have brought them here, so I must share the burden of responsibility.”

Her interference was met with a withering look directed at the said guests. “What is this childish display? Have _you_ put my daughter up to it?”

Miranda smiled. “On the contrary, Peter, you appear to have missed your daughter growing up into a responsible young woman. I would wonder what has kept you so busy, but we both already know the answer, don’t we?”

He repeated the order, gesturing at Colonel Rhett to physically remove her from the room if necessary.

She froze, unwilling to believe her ears. “Father… when did you become so hardened against second chances?”

“When _they_ became murderers!” he snapped, red-faced. “If you knew half of what they’d done, you wouldn’t be so quick to jump to their defence.”

“But I do know,” she reasoned. “They, too, have suffered a terrible loss. I remember Uncle Thomas-”

“‘Uncle’ indeed,” he muttered. “You are too young to remember him properly. Thomas Hamilton _abhorred_ all forms of violence, and he never would have stood for their actions. Colonel, will you escort my daughter back to her room or not?”

And just like that, the helpless feeling that had been welling up inside her rushed to the surface, and she was back in Ned Low’s cargo hold. She gripped the table’s edge, terrified of the stranger lurking behind a beloved face. Could he really have changed so much? Or was it she who had lost sight of what was right and wrong?

She had naively thought that she had come home at last, but perhaps ‘home’ was a thing of the past now. Perhaps they had lost it forever.

Captain Flint stood in Colonel Rhett’s way.

“Oh God,” Abigail breathed out at the sight of the raised muskets. “Stop! Please stop this!” She had only made things so much worse! “I will do as you say, Father! It was my mistake, not some malicious design.”

“Perhaps you _should_ stay, then.” He paced to and fro as the men withdrew. “Perhaps you could learn a little something about the true nature of second chances.”

“Someone here has been taking lessons in parenting from the grand masters.” Miranda toyed with her wineglass. “Have you formed an official club yet?”

“Don’t you dare speak to me of how I raise my daughter, you childless-!” He swallowed the rest of the insult at the last moment. “Lord knows what she has been exposed to in your company!”

“Of course He does.” Miranda’s chair drew back noisily. “And I _will_ speak to you, sir. I will speak to you of what you and Alfred Hamilton have done to my husband!”

Abigail held onto Captain Flint’s sleeve, neither of them saying a word. The sheer, monstrous tragedy of Miranda’s story was staggering.

“I had no notion…” Abigail trailed off, sickened.

“I know,” the Captain murmured, not unkindly. “Neither of us would ever hold you responsible for your father’s sins.”

Loud, thumping footsteps in the corridor. Captain Flint was there in a heartbeat, sidestepping and wrestling a musket from the first man to charge in. Father jerked back his head, Miranda’s nails scratching his cheek, narrowly missing the eye.

A silent scream died in Abigail’s throat as a gunshot pierced the air. She looked from Father to Miranda and found both of them unharmed - which failed to account for their shared horror.

“What…” She wobbled and saw blood on the floor. There was no pain, just a patch of dampness on the front of her gown. “Oh.”

Somehow, this turn of events did not surprise her. _Now_ they would stop fighting, she thought dizzily. _Now_ she would see Mother again.

 

* * *

 

The world was in a constant motion around her. She was familiar with it, the steady rocking like that of a cradle. It soothed her, before the thick, briny ship’s smells hit her nostrils, mingled with a whiff of laudanum.

Next, she was greeted with a positively angelic smile. “Welcome back to our little Noah’s Arc, Miss.”

“Mr. Silver,” she remembered. Captain Flint’s quarters had been transformed into a very strange hospital ward.

“There’s water, right next to you.” He waved at the jug. “You’ll have to excuse me.” A stump where his left leg used to be, but he carried on like they were comparing notes in class: “How is your shoulder?”

“Ow.” She should _not_ have tried to move it. “I was so certain I was going to die _._ ”

“It’s a funny thing, isn’t it? You and I, of all people, becoming the proud bearers of the battle scars.”

“Has there been a battle?” Her memory was trying to spare her more anguish.

“Oh yes!” He told her all about it in great detail, as if relating some historical event from times long past.

Halfway through, Miranda entered the cabin, but did not approach Abigail. “You should not have found out in this way.” She turned a stern eye on Mr. Silver. “And _you_ should have called for me, like I asked you to do.”

He coughed. “Well, it’s my first nursing duty.”

“Once your life is out of immediate danger, Miss Ashe,” Miranda said formally, keeping her distance, “we will see to it that you are delivered to your next of kin.” She picked up a book, shielding herself with it before placing it beside Abigail.

Abigail spilled the water on herself. “You killed Father.” She had not borne witness, which was but the smallest of mercies. “And Charles Town is no more.”

“With these two hands.” Miranda raised them, palms up. “I had to.”

“In Mrs. Barlow’s defence, I do believe she was under the impression that you needed avenging also.”

“When I require someone to speak for me, Mr. Silver, you’ll be the first to know.” Miranda helped him outside to allow Abigail some privacy, promising to fetch Dr. Howell, the surgeon.

Abigail closed her eyes wearily. Being here was no way to honour Father’s memory, but she had been on her own for far longer than she used to believe.

_1\. Of my grandfather Verus I have learned to be gentle and meek, and to refrain from all anger and passion._

**Author's Note:**

> The quotes are from 2x08 and the first line in _Meditations_. Edits 28-07-2016 after straightening out the facts re: Abigail's mother.


End file.
